


I Thee Wed

by wicked_little_thing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Humour, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_little_thing/pseuds/wicked_little_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock proposes to John out of the blue. For a case, obviously. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Rating may change.
> 
> Also: Cross-posted on [FFN](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9200703/1/I-Thee-Wed).

Sherlock gets right to the point.

"John, we should get married."

He says it without inflection, in such a perfectly bored tone that if John wasn't listening to the words he's actually saying, he would have thought Sherlock was talking about something as banal as the weather.

John has been making himself (and maybe Sherlock too if he can get him to eat) some spaghetti bolognese. The knife he's using to cut the onions almost slips, narrowly missing his metacarpals. He's not sure he's heard right.

"Excuse me?" he hints politely for some much-needed clarification.

"You heard me," Sherlock presses with all the patience of a toddler, "Let's get married."

John puts down the knife, sensing this is one of _those_ conversations.

"And why should we do such a thing?" John says, with all the patience of a medical professional.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "You're the most logical option."

John waits for the punchline.

When none seems forthcoming, after a long moment of silence and a silent stand-off, he rolls his shoulders and simply says, "Uh, no. Sorry."

Sherlock looks genuinely confused as if he didn't factor this possible outcome into his calculations, but it's wiped away quite quickly.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, squinting at his friend. He looks like he's about to stomp his foot and throw a tantrum.

John leans back a bit, blinking with disbelief, "Sherlock, I'm not marrying you because 'it's the most logical option'."

Sherlock makes a little sulky noise that John was completely expecting, or something along the lines of.

"But this is the best way," Sherlock says, vehemently, "The official who performs the ceremonies is a murderer and all of my current evidence is merely circumstantial, John. He must be caught in the act to gain grounds for a solid conviction."

John really couldn't care less, "No. I am _not_ marrying you, Sherlock."

"But John," Sherlock stretches out his name into a whine that would do a six-year-old kid proud, "It's for the greater good!"

John snorts, "Like you care about the greater good."

Sherlock smirks smugly, "No, but you do."

John sobers up at that. He says, "Get someone else to marry you."

"It's a civil marriage official."

"Get Lestrade to marry you!"

"He wouldn't marry me if his life depended on it, and the feeling's mutual. You on the other hand -"

John can't believe what he's hearing, "And what the _hell_ makes you think that I would?"

"There are lives at stake here, John," Sherlock widens his eyes in mock earnestness.

John stares at him. He says, "You've got to be joking."

Sherlock says, "I never joke."

"Yeah you do," John counters.

Sherlock heaves a sigh, "It wouldn't mean anything if that's what you're so concerned about. If it eases your mind, we can get a divorce the following day."

"No, Sherlock! There is _no way_ I'm marrying you!" John's voice rises a couple of octaves, and he bunches his hands into fists as if that would help strengthen his resolve.

"But _why_ _not_?" Sherlock says as he huffs and crosses his arms.

John actually cannot believe this is his life.

"Do I really need to spell is for you? Find another way to catch the murderer."

"Why. Not?" Sherlock asks, leaning over the bench, face set in hard planes and sharp irritation.

"Because it's just not what mates do, Sherlock," John says through gritted teeth.

Sherlock tilts his head and regards him for a moment, "I've heard that a spouse is often one's best friend. Don't you think I've already considered every other option? This is the one most likely to give me what I need."

John considers the very, very sharp knife in front of him. He closes his eyes, and counts to ten, as slow as he can.

After a moment, he glares up at his impatiently fidgeting friend, "Alright. Fine. But I have conditions."

Sherlock waves a hand, indicating he continue.

"It doesn't mean a thing," John holds out one finger.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock shakes his head emphatically.

"We get divorced the _very_ next day. Seriously, I don't care about the usual grounds for divorce rules," John continues, unfurling a second.

"Certainly. Mycroft owes me a bit of a favour anyway," Sherlock gives a feline smile.

"You may not tell another soul about this once it's over, nor will you tell a soul while we're married. Capiche?" John's steely eyes bore into Sherlock in the most menacing way he can muster.

It would have worked on anyone else, but this is Sherlock, and no matter that he wouldn't say it aloud; Sherlock finds John-in-a-huff incredibly endearing. He always feels an irrational urge to do things he would not normally consider, never mind actually _do_.

Sherlock doesn't allow himself to grin in triumph, but instead nods his solemn acceptance and exits with his usual dramatic air.

John sighs and gets back to making dinner.


	2. The Puzzle

Sherlock doesn't actually need to marry John to catch the murderer of newly-weds. He didn't lie to John. He had considered every other option, and this one really is most likely to give him what he requires without a hitch - no pun intended.

What John doesn't have to know is what Sherlock really wants. and what Sherlock really wants doesn't have much to do with the case.

The rest of the world was being so mind-numbingly monotonous of late, and he had to find _some_ way to occupy his mind. It was either this, or allowing his mental capacities to slowly deteriorate as his mind palace engulfed itself in a roaring bushfire of its own making. He needs to contain it, needs to give his whirring mind something to burn. Simply breathing would not work. He needs a puzzle, _needs_ it to feed the machine of his mind, or the pain grows to unbearable heights and he loses control. It's happened before, and he detests it.

The idea had been born while he was lying prone on the sofa. His face had been smooshed into the cushions, lungs expanding and contracting tediously, olfactory receptors sending signals to his brain and perceiving faint lingering scents of burnt toast, formaldehyde, and rosin. He'd been trying to occupy his mind by thinking through possible experiments on various species of fungi and mould compositions, but none had held any appeal. He'd already set up meticulous records in his mind palace about what is most common (and in some cases, unique), and it was all just so _dull_.

Everything was just so exceedingly, maddeningly, hopelessly dull and it was starting to make him petulant and irritable and _itching_ for something new to come along. He was an inch off hacking into government databases and security systems again - just to piss Mycroft off.

Mycroft's stupid pudgy face turning red is always amusing, and it certainly beats out complete and utter inertia.

The case that Lestrade had asked him for help with - the newly-weds case - was pedestrian, a five at best, and he'd already solved it. All that remained was the matter of retrieving hard evidence, or catching the man in the act. He knew he was perfectly capable of finding the evidence they needed, but why on earth should he bother when everything about the case _screamed_ banal and boring?

 _Surely_ he could have faith that the circus monkeys that run the Yard weren't completely incompetent.

Then he'd heard John walk into the flat, muttering something about people seeing only what they want to see.

Naturally, Sherlock had deduced that either Mrs Hudson or a neighbour - more likely the latter - had made a passing comment alluding to their non-existent romantic relationship again. In a stroke of true genius (surprise surprise!) Sherlock had a thought: Why not experiment _on_ _John_?

Half of London seems to think they're together, and the other half didn't know them. There has to be something - something obvious - that Sherlock's missed to make them do so. An occurrence so common could not be coincidental, could not have some basis that allowed people, stranger or not, to draw such similar conclusions about the two of them.

Sherlock isn't completely oblivious. He knows the signs of attraction - _heightened pulse, dilated pupils, elevated breathing_ \- and John exhibits more of them towards Sherlock far more frequently than he does towards any one of his long string of girlfriends. It could be a number of other things, certainly; these signs alone and occurring individually in various situations don't prove a thing by themselves. It could be fight-or-flight responses kicking in prior to a chase, changes in lighting, or just plain old anger at something a bit not good that Sherlock does unwittingly.

Sherlock can admit he isn't an expert when it comes to emotions on a subjective level. When it relates to his work - when it's _objective_ \- he has it down to a science. Person X + Behaviour Y = Emotion J. At the moment, however, he can't draw any conclusions with the appalling lack of data he has on the matter. Starting off with next to nothing as he was did little to deter him. He was confident that he would be capable of understanding anything that a regular moron could. It wouldn't be too difficult to grasp with enough research and experimentation. Simple, really.

John is different - Sherlock knows that. Has known it for some time. He's a friend, and for some reason emotions associated with him are not boring. Nothing like the general public and their terribly predictable inclinations. John is an outlier in the set of data.

He's the closest thing to incomprehensible a human can be to Sherlock.

Often Sherlock's attempts to deduce John's reactions fail completely. He has estimated a 57% success rate with such deductions, which is wholly unacceptable with how long he's known John and how familiar he is with his habits and personality traits. It's almost as if John's brain is wired differently to those of the general masses, one that doesn't follow a pattern.

It doesn't make sense, and yet there it is.

Sherlock just _doesn't know_ when it comes to John, and rarely does that happen. Almost never does. Now that he'd thought about it, he couldn't resist running tests on the one truly bewildering regularity in his life.

Sherlock grinned, forming a steeple with his hands. Goodbye boredom, hello puzzle.


	3. The Prat

John has had many rude awakenings since moving into 221B. It'd been a bit of a package deal - messy flat, adrenaline-fuelled cases, and an inconsiderate, petulant, unpredictable alarm clock of a flatmate.

Depending on his mood, Sherlock may feel it necessary to wake John by torturing his violin into screeching like a dying cat, or maybe by yelling at some inane, predictable, worthless drama - Sherlock's words. John just _knew_ it was a terrible idea to get Sherlock into crap telly.

There was one constant to this madness, however, and that was that this always occurred at godforsaken hours of the morning. There was one time when Sherlock had been conducting an experiment and John had been startled awake thinking he was back in Afghanistan, because the explosion in the kitchen had damn well sounded like a IED going off. When he'd gotten a grip and stomped angrily downstairs to check, he wasn't too far off the mark. It had been a while before the kitchen was usable again.

There were the times when it was case-related, too, and John is usually grudgingly fine with that.

Today is a totally different story. It isn't a wailing violin, or shouting, or even an explosion that startles John awake this time. It's a fog horn.

A handheld, blaring, ugly, who's-genius-idea-was-it-to-invent-such-a-monstrosity-and-release-it-to-a-world-where-madmen-can-get-their-hands-on-it-and-torture-John _fog horn_.

After jerking awake like he's been electrocuted, John pushes himself up to rest against the headboard of his bed, clutching his bed sheets and duvet closer to him as he stares, horrified and wide-eyed, at his lunatic flatmate standing by his bed. His lunatic flatmate who has just _blasted a fog horn in his ear_.

"What the hell?!" John cries, voice cracking in hysterical frustration.

Sherlock gives him a Cheshire grin, spinning the offending source of the god-awful alarm bell in his agile, spindly hand, "Excellent. Just as efficient as I expected."

"What?" John chokes out, heart racing a mile a minute.

"I needed you awake. The fog horn was quick," Sherlock says airily.

Now that the initial shock is fading, anger is swarming in to take its place. John can feel his blood pressure rising, a monster prowling inside the cage of his chest.

"Quick? _Quick!_ You've got to be joking. You complete prat!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes hard enough to break something, his whole lean frame screaming that he's already bored with this conversation.

"Oh stop being so dramatic and get up already, John. Our appointment's in an hour."

"What? What appointment?" John blinks, valiantly trying to get his rearing temper under control, but before he even finishes voicing the question his bedroom door is swinging shut behind Sherlock, a.k.a. the bane of his existence.

"Sherlock, _what appointment_?" John yells.

He grumbles incoherently when he receives no reply. It's not difficult for him to hear Sherlock smirking arrogantly from a floor down.

When John makes his stormy, irritable way into the living room after showering, dressing and telling himself ten times that murdering his flatmate will get him nowhere in life, he finds Sherlock on his own laptop for once sitting at the table they share. The screen lights his face up in ghostly relief, accentuating his cheekbones and brightening his eyes.

"Our appointment?" John presses, going into the kitchen to make some world-renowned therapeutic tea. He senses he's going to need it today, what with the terribly rude awakening and the foreboding feeling he has swirling around in his gut.

That feeling seems to have taken up residence ever since Sherlock, well, proposed.

"The tailor's. You need a tuxedo," Sherlock says absently, staring at the screen.

John peers back into the living room to stare at the lowered, curl-adorned head, "And what's wrong with the one I have?"

Sherlock glances up at him briefly, "Nothing at all if you want to turn up to the wedding looking like a mole. Really, John. We're not getting married with you wearing that potato sack."

John almost drops his mug. What the _hell_ is wrong with Sherlock today? John swears he's worse than his usual socially-inept self. John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. As much as the man aggravates him, Sherlock usually has good intentions behind his actions. Usually being the operative word. They also tend to be buried way down deep and beyond regular human vision.

"Our killer marries up to six couples every fortnight, but there is only one couple victimised in that period of time. We need to make an impression to ensure that he chooses us as his next victims," Sherlock continues at his usual rumbling speed with nary a pause for breath.

"How do you know that making an impression will make him choose us?" John frowns slightly.

Sherlock sighs theatrically, "It's obvious, John. The bodies were carefully dissected and eviscerated; they were almost identical in their post-mortem states. For this killer, it's all about the aesthetics. He's precise and meticulous in his patterns of both his process of killing and cleaning up after himself, hence the lack of incriminating evidence. Not only is he smart, organized and careful, but to him this is an art that needs to be done perfectly with the right bodies and mutilations or not at all. He selects his victims based on how they look, and whether or not they represent what he opposes. What he opposes is yet to be confirmed, but I suspect it's a grudge against happily-married homosexuals. Whether said grudge is personal or not is irrelevant."

John feels slightly nauseous, "That's sick."

Sherlock hums noncommittally before typing away at his laptop like rapid gunfire.

"Serial killers are generally methodical and clear away any incriminating evidence as they see fit. However, with time, they grow arrogant and making a fatal error soon follows. I assume you don't wish to wait for that to happen. Without looking our best, that _would_ _be_ what would happen, John," Sherlock pauses to pierce John with a look.

John assumes a weary expression. _Git_ , he thinks.

"Fine, alright. I'll get the damn suit, but you're paying for it," John glares.

Sherlock merely gives one of his bright, wide, closed-mouth imitations of a smile.


	4. The Pararthria

John wakes up the next morning with a disheartening thought: _Damn, I have work_.

Being a soldier who has regained his equilibrium, John's supposed sleeping schedule entails going to bed at around 11 and then waking up at around the crack of dawn. In reality, however, it's much more unpredictable, as would be expected when one lives with a slightly mad genius. So this peaceful awakening of his, unlike the foghorn incident, is relatively strange in its normality.

For all he appreciates the sweet absence of something trying to bash his eardrums into a pulp, he still awakes with an uneasy feeling. It's absurd, but there it is. Though if being a soldier has taught him one thing, it's that sometimes the gut knows better than conscious thoughts. In the battlefield, sometimes it comes down to split-second decisions, life-or-death situations - all one can count on is the training hard-wired into one's brain manifesting itself in the form of a gut reaction.

John feels ridiculous and on-guard at the same after thinking about this particular gut feeling, because he's conflicted. There doesn't appear to be any danger at all, and yet ...

He shakes it off and heads downstairs.

John finds his flatmate in his leather arm chair, back curved where the seat of the chair meets the backrest, jiggling one leg up and down so his foot thumps on the floor. All of this with an air of elegant, posh arrogance. Only Sherlock Holmes could manage something so ridiculously contrary. He's texting, eyes fixed steadfastly to the small luminous screen of his Blackberry above him as his fingers push furiously at the keypad. John catches himself musing that Sherlock texting is somewhat entrancing.

 _Huh_ , John thinks and shakes it off, shuffling into the kitchen to make his morning cuppa.

When the water finishes boiling, Sherlock materialises at the entrance to the kitchen and says, "The date is set for Tuesday."

John takes a moment to make the connection. After all, he simply _can't_ be expected to function properly without his morning cup of tea - that would be like asking for toast without a spread - against the laws of the universe.

"As in, the wedding is on Tuesday?" John double-checks as he goes to the fridge for milk.

"Yes," Sherlock drawls, drawing the word out long enough that it plays on John's already tightened nerves.

John shoots him a 'I have a gun and I will use it' look.

Then a thought occurs to him and he asks, "How did you manage to get a date so soon anyway? I've heard there's usually quite the waiting list."

Sherlock's ice-laser-sharp eyes flick away and over John's head, "It wasn't too hard to pull a few strings. It's for a good cause, after all."

John hums noncommitally, gaze rapt on the mug of heavenly drink he is concocting.

Sherlock clears his throat. If John had to guess, he'd say Sherlock is having one of his I'm-out-of-my-depth moments.

"You have work today," he comments.

"Yes, I do," John replies, a hint of a question mark tailing his words.

Sherlock pauses for a heartbeat and then strides away. John watches him go in bewilderment, then turns his attention back to making breakfast.

His day at the clinic turns out to be even more dull than usual. He likes helping people, certainly, but compared to all that's happened and is still happening to him: Afghanistan, Sherlock - the clinic is just a tad mundane. He berates himself for thinking that way, because it isn't what a _doctor_ is meant to think about his patients, no matter who they are or what their ailment or injury is. Maybe he should come to terms with the fact that he's an adrenaline junkie and let it rest at that.

Washing his hands after tending to his last patient for the day, he gets a text from Sherlock requesting his presence at St Bart's immediately. John can't help but feel his heart rate pick up. Almost definitely a new development on the case.

John enters Bart's and quickly finds his way to Sherlock's usual lab. With the amount of times he's been here, both before Afghanistan and with Sherlock, he could probably make it there with his eyes closed. He pushes the doors open to find Sherlock staring off at some invisible-to-everyone-else computer screen conjured up by his brain, with fingers steepled, brow furrowed and obviously thinking at a million miles an hour.

John says tolerantly, "So what's up?"

"Impeccable timing, John," Sherlock prevaricates without a glance in his direction, "You must have come almost as soon as you received my text."

John tries not to feel like a dog and fails. He crosses his arms and shuffles his feet, "Right. What's so important you needed me here right away?"

Sherlock looks at him and John is immediately wary. He knows that look. That look is usually followed by something like jumping out into the open to distract an amateur gunman or taking a dip in the Thames in the middle of winter.

"Sherlock," John says slowly in warning, "Whatever it is you're thinking of doing, _don't_."

Sherlock's eyes are fixed on John's as he stands, steps regally from his lab stool and begins advancing in a frankly terrifying manner. John finds himself backing away until he collides with a bench. They both stop and freeze, both of their breathing audible in the still, quiet laboratory.

They're less than a foot away from each other.

Sherlock peers down at him, eyes flicking over his face in steadfast scrutiny, a focus usually reserved for corpses and crime scenes, and John finds his insides squirming under the intensity.

The scariest part of all isn't all the warning bells going off in John's head being the subject of Sherlock's gaze. It's the fact that John can't tell if he wants to flee, or wait and see what Sherlock does next.

"Sherlock, what are you -" John starts.

"Shut up, I'm thinking," Sherlock interrupts shortly, irritably.

John's mouth shuts with a click. He feels light-headed, but that could be the adrenaline. No, that's not right. Adrenaline sharpens all the senses.

Sherlock's eyes are still roaming over John's face, picking up God knows what. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw is visibly clenched and his lips are pursed and John shouldn't have looked at his lips because now he can't stop staring. They's blush pink and supple and John's stomach is falling.

John senses Sherlock shift, or maybe he doesn't, but something makes him look up into pale grey-green-blue eyes and hold. Sherlock seems to shake himself and then opens his mouth and says -

Nothing. Instead, he takes John's head in his hands and kisses him square on the mouth in less time than it takes to form a coherent protest.

John lets out _the_ _most embarrassing_ _squeak ever_ and immediately wants the world to swallow him whole. But he also doesn't, because damn it, he's not the one in the wrong here!

Sherlock's lips move and press and tug at John's still ones. Warm, heady... _insane_.

Sherlock is kissing him.

 _Sherlock_ is _kissing_ him.

John has no idea what is happening. His brain has flat-lined. Doctor's diagnosis. He doesn't remember how to breathe. And his heart is racing a mile a minute despite this.

Passing out is looking probable.

It's a mere 10 seconds, but it feels like a decade has passed before John starts to notice things. Like how Sherlock's lips are softly coaxing and gentle moving against John's loosening ones, how his eyes are closed, how his breath smells like peppermint, how his hands are massaging his scalp in an entirely soothing-but-really-not-and-oh-god- _what-is-happening_ kind of way. Yes, passing out from _confusion_ is looking more and more like a possibility.

Then the doors to the lab burst open and startle John into pushing Sherlock away.

"- wasn't sure how old you wanted them, so um, I just grabbed a couple and - oh."

Molly. It's Molly.

Christ, as if this couldn't get _any worse_. John pinches the bridges of his nose for a moment and thinks, _Lord give me strength_ before looking up to survey the damage.

John stares at Molly in mute horror - a subtler mirror of her expression. She takes in Sherlock and John's _much_ -closer-than-usual proximity and faces. It wouldn't take a genius to work out what they'd just been doing.

John feels like a turd. Molly's obviously had a huge crush on Sherlock for quite a long time, and right now she looks like she's holding back about a gazillion emotions.

"Molly, wait -" John starts, but Molly is already gone, door swinging shut behind her.

Damn. He feels sorry for her, but he also _really_ needs to tell her that this needs to _stay between the three of them_.

He glares at Sherlock, who has a distant contemplative look on his face.

"Sherlock," John begins, slowly and ever so carefully enunciating his words, " _What_ was that?"


	5. Palinode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little tip-off before a probable intermission. Leave kudos/comments with advice, etc. if you want :)

"Sherlock," John begins, slowly and ever so carefully enunciating his words, "What was that?"

"We need to establish some intimate familiarity, or else the murderer won't take note of us, John," Sherlock says emphatically.

John crosses his arms, rocks back on his heels and his lips tug into a smile that's not a smile, "Right, yeah, and that makes it okay to kiss me out of the blue does it?"

"I knew you would protest. I needed to catch you by surprise and once I'd done it _once_ I hoped you would be more understanding of the need for this," Sherlock says.

"No, that's not - that's not how it _works_ , Sherlock! You're unbelievable," John shakes his head, letting out a breathy, humorless laugh, "I should file a report against you for sexual harassment. No, actually, harassment in general."

Sherlock snorts, "Well what do you expect to happen when we turn up to get married? _Of course_ we'll have to kiss and act like we're all rainbows and sunshine!"

John raises his eyebrows, "That does _not_ justify the kiss. You could have told me, Sherlock. I did not give you my consent!"

Sherlock's gaze narrows at him, "You would _not_ have said yes, so I took matters into my own hands. Besides, I didn't hear you making any protests."

John's hackles rise, "Now, hang on - that has nothing to do with this!"

"You froze, but with instincts as honed as yours from long-term training and military service you could have easily pushed me away before I kissed you," Sherlock interrupts, eyes blazing and frightening in their intensity, "But you didn't. In fact, you were about to start kissing back before Molly interrupted us."

John takes a deep breath and tries to reign in his temper before he says something he'll regret.

Then a thought occurs to him and his eyes narrow in return, "That was an awfully convenient interruption."

Sherlock's features school into a perfect mask of indifference. _Too_ perfect - which is exactly how John knows it's fake.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Sherlock says with an arrogant jerk of his head, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Oh come off it. You know what time to expect me to arrive here from the clinic, but not when Molly will come back from whatever it was you sent her to get? What's that all about, hmm? What's your angle?" John's eyes are steadfast and he stands tall - or, as tall as he can manage.

Literal height is irrelevant anyway. He didn't earn the title of 'Captain' for nothing.

Sherlock looks down his nose at him, before rolling his eyes and striding away and out of the doors like a cloaked villain in a children's cartoon.


	6. The Ponderation

"John!" Sherlock calls from his lair, "Have you seen my trousers?"

John shakes his head even though the other man can't see him.

"No, sorry," he calls from the kitchen, where he's making his morning cuppa.

"I can't find them anywhere!" Sherlock's irritation is saturated in the morning air.

"Well, what makes you think I'd know where they are?" John calls back incredulously.

"Keeping track of the trivial details is your job!" Sherlock yells.

It's times like these that John is reminded that Sherlock is a total mummy's boy.

Sounds of crashing around come from within Sherlock's room, enough to set John's teeth on edge. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not your slave, Sherlock."

There's a pregnant pause.

"I _know that_ ," Sherlock says in a low voice, but it still carries through the relative quiet to John's ears.

John scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling a bit torn for no apparent reason.

"Why can't you just deduce where they are?" John blurts, dispelling the tension.

Sherlock sighs heavily as if it's the most obvious thing in the history of the planet, " _Because_ , John, when I'm focussed on mulling over a problem, I eliminate all sensory input to a bare minimum and turn off any unnecessary trains of thought to enhance the process. If I had put my trousers away while in such a state, they could be in _your_ room for all I know."

John tries to stop his mind from wandering, but with the themes threaded through their latest case, it's hard _not_ to imagine what Sherlock's trousers in John's room would imply.

That's the thing. The elephant in the room has morphed into a bloody blue whale and even though John's trying ever so hard not to think about it, an elephant's pretty hard to ignore, never mind a whopping great _whale_.

John supposes he shouldn't be surprised by any of this, but he's a bit fed up with the mind games that Sherlock's playing. John _knows_ Sherlock's up to something, because it's so subtle, it's obvious. He hasn't been himself in a long while. Not since this whole getting–married–to–catch–a–killer thing started. It's all a ploy. John can see right through the consulting detective, but he doesn't want to talk about it. Not yet anyway. He's curious.

Perhaps he has a death wish; there's no way of knowing what the hell Sherlock's really up to with the kissing, fog horns, and god knows what else John's in store for. Yet here he is, going along with it.

"Found them!" Sherlock cries triumphantly, "They were under the textbooks. Wonder how that happened."

"You're not the only one," John mutters to himself.

Sherlock walks into the kitchen a moment later, running a hand through his hair. John wordlessly hands him his mug of tea. He actively ignores how their fingers brush.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes drawing John's in like a south pole to a north.

John feels stranded on a small tropical island as Sherlock's eyes assess him, shining seemingly from within – the way they do when he's being particularly observant.

Seriously, what is _with_ Sherlock lately? Is _he_ doing this, planting ideas in John's mind that refuse to be killed like a magician with his illusions? Or is it John? Is it _John_ that's seeing things that aren't there, because he can't get the bloody idea out of his mind? The idea that's meant to be an act for a case, and not affecting him at all because he's 100% sure what he has with Sherlock isn't like that?

John just doesn't know – and he usually does with these sorts of things – because this is his flatmate, friend and associate. Previously thought to be _asexual_ flatmate, friend and associate but now might just not be. So is it him then, seeing things for some reason he isn't sure he's ready to think about? Or is Sherlock manipulating him for some reason he _also_ doesn't want to think about?

The uncertainty of it all is setting off mini explosions in his brain.

"No problem," John replies in equal volume, hurriedly looking down at his own mug, but he can still feel Sherlock's gaze on him like a brand.

He clears his throat and says, "So what time are we set to be there?"

"Ten," Sherlock says crisply, taking a sip of his tea, his eyes roaming over John's face for a second longer before flicking away.

"Right."

When they've finished their tea, Sherlock dumps his tea mug into the dish–free (thanks to John) sink and gallops down the stairs.

John follows suit.

–––

"Sherlock."

" – is absurd. I don't even like blue! Why on earth would the designer think to add _blue_ flowers and ribbons? I thought white was the _traditional_ colour for these affairs?" Sherlock's voice is filled with scorn.

" _Sherlock_ ," John presses.

Sherlock throws a look at John and rolls his eyes, "I refuse to apologize for pointing out incompetency, John."

John shifts back on his heels slightly and raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms at the same time. His expression speaks volumes.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the smaller man, huffs, and storms off with all the disdain of a snotty teenager.

John heaves a sigh and after apologising to the member of staff, follows Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you can't just go around saying things like that. You heard the manager; it's not their fault they don't have white decorations up yet," John explains with extreme patience.

Sherlock heaves a great sigh, "Yes but this _is_ our rehearsal, John. Although I do suppose it's a bit much to expect people to do their jobs correctly."

John gives a small smile and shakes his head, directing his attention back to the expanse of the hall. There are rows of seats, all facing a raised stage. A wide aisle runs down the middle, marked with a red carpet. The erroneous blue decorations include ribbons linked together with bunches of flowers running down the rows of seats on the aisle side. The same blue adornments run high along the walls.

"Why does it matter what colour the decorations are, anyway?" John mutters, holding one hand in the other behind his back and continuing his perusal of the scene.

"When setting a trap up to catch a rat, cheese is placed in exactly the right position, correct? This is a trap, John, and if the right bait isn't used, or placed in the wrong position, it won't catch the killer," Sherlock rumbles.

John snorts, "Bullshit."

Sherlock jerks his head to look down at the older man, "I … beg your pardon?"

John glances at him and gives a bit of a smirk, "The colour or layout of the decorations won't determine whether the killer will show his face later on. You just want everything to look nice."

It's Sherlock's turn to snort, with a bit more disdain than his companion, "How fanciful of you."

"That wasn't a 'no'," John returns mildly.

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but the doors to the hall open with a groan, revealing one Molly Hooper. Her face is one better suited for a poker game, but flashes of emotion escape in her eyes as she takes in the hall – which is exactly how John knows that she'd rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

John turns to face Sherlock and says with a warning tone, "Sherlock."

"Molly!" Sherlock cries and claps his hands together in false enthusiasm, making his way forward, "Excellent. Delighted you could make it."

John can feel a pounding in his head as he follows Sherlock. Molly has a small smile on her face as she gives a little wave.

"Hello. Love the decorations," she says, smiling a bit and giving a nervous laugh.

Sherlock gives a wry half–smile.

"Sherlock?" John prompts.

"Ah, of course. Molly's here as a witness, John. Lestrade should be along soon," Sherlock explains.

"I – right, okay, and _when_ were you planning on telling me this?" John tries to keep the tension out of his voice.

"Hardly matters, you know now."

"You – are you serious?" John eyebrows attempt to fly off his head.

Sherlock just blinks at him.

"Sherlock, we talked about this!" John cries, his hands clenching.

Sherlock shoots him a disapproving frown, "Really, John, what did you expect? We couldn't get married in a vacuum. For it to look legitimate, _naturally_ we'd have to have a few witnesses."

John glances at Molly; she looks like she has indigestion and is trying to keep it all down.

"Molly saw us kiss, John. The cat's out of the bag, so to speak," Sherlock gives a false smile.

John swallows hard as Molly away with moist eyes. He feels a stab of remorse, then turns to Sherlock and says through clenched teeth, "Hmm. And I suppose Lestrade knew about this plan all along and he insisted on being a witness."

"Actually, yes. Spot on," Sherlock tilts his head and smirks.

John's temper flares just a tiny bit hotter.

"Sherlock. You could have talked to me first," John says quietly, all bottled-up anger.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him before they widen slightly in realisation, "Ah. Not good?"

"Not good," John confirms tightly.

If John's being honest with himself, he hadn't expected Sherlock to keep his promise of keeping this quiet. It's true they need witnesses so his anger with the man. Perhaps Molly and Lestrade _aren't_ the worst choices Sherlock could have made. Molly does need a bit of a wakeup call, but there could have been nicer ways to break it to her even if Sherlock has never been interested in a relationship with her. He supposes including Lestrade makes sense, because it's best that he's in on the operation in the first place in case of a need for backup. Neither of them are the type to go around gossiping about it, either.

So maybe that last bit is just fervent hope disguised as wishful thinking but there is a chance – however slim it really is. John tries not to feel like he's clinging to that. Mrs Hudson, after all, would have had a field day with this and called up Graham Norton on the way.

The door opens once more to reveal one Greg Lestrade, looking about as smugly amused as John can handle.

"Aw, well don't you two look spiffing," the DI grins before nodding politely at Molly, "Molly."

"Greg, one more word and I'll murder you in your sleep," John warns, fighting valiantly against the heat rising to his face.

Lestrade only winks, eyes glinting, "Not a one."

John only just manages to keep himself from squirming. God, this is all so surreal. _Still_ so surreal. He thought he'd be used to the idea by now, but sometimes the truth hits him unexpectedly, and he has to stop moving until he's absorbed the shock again. This is one of those moments.

He's getting married to his best friend. _Married_ to his _best friend_. His male, supposedly asexual best friend, who he doesn't have any romantic feelings for. None at all.

Christ, who _does_ that?

He shakes his head slightly as if to shoo away his squeamishness. He seriously needs to get a grip. He can do this without freaking out, he _can_. They're getting a divorce. It's fine. Why does he care so much anyway? He doesn't need to care so much, he really doesn't. So why _does_ he?

The possibilities on the periphery are too alarming to consciously address. Yet. He'll deal with it once all of this is over.

There's a silence as the four of them watch the small staff drifting around, making small changes in preparation.

"So – are these the suits you'll be wearing on the day?" Molly asks, her voice wavering just a little.

"Not at all. The real suits are still on lay by. 'Can't rush quality', as Mycroft would say," Sherlock sneers.

"I suppose not," Molly gives another little laugh, "You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?"

"It has to look authentic or else the killer won't take the bait," Sherlock says.

"True, but you're getting new suits and everything –"

Sherlock gives a heavy sigh.

" – don't you think you're overdoing it a bit?" Molly continues, giving a watery smile, "I mean, it's not like you two are really getting married."

"Might as well be at this rate," John mutters.

Sherlock either doesn't hear him, or pretends not to.

In a tone one might reserve for speaking calmly to a disobedient child, Sherlock says to Molly, "You are mistaken, Molly – we are _really_ getting married and we are _really_ getting divorced soon after."

Molly draws her eyebrows together, "I didn't mean it literally. I meant that you're not getting married for the normal reason, you know, because you're in love with each other."

John feels his insides writhe at the idea. God, no. He really doesn't want to think about this yet. Nope. He's not doing it. He looks away from them all as if searching for an easy out from the conversation.

"Of course not, Molly. Don't be stupid. John's not gay, as he's said to death," Sherlock says in a perfect Eton voice.

That gives John pause. That isn't that solid of an argument. He's not gay, no, but he _is_ bisexual.

He's known for a while. He'd had a good mate in high school; they'd liked each other, and then they'd really liked each other. A game of cat and mouse had followed – dropped hints, casual touches and blatant flirting – with both of them unsure about who the cat was and who the mouse was. After a drunken kiss, they'd kicked the relationship into top gear. It had flared bright and hot, but like a lighter, it was only a temporary fire. Just the same as the five or so guys he'd dated – if it could even be called that – afterwards.

He's never really had that much luck with women either, but picking up women came more easily to him for no further reason than he felt more amenable towards them when it came to romance, so he had, for the most part, decided to stick with them.

After Afghanistan dating didn't seem like an option, but then Sherlock happened. At first, he had been intrigued by the way he looked. Androgynously attractive with his high cheekbones and luscious cupid's bow lips, John's had privately grovelled and silently thanked Mike Stanford for introducing them, because _damn_.

Then Sherlock opened his mouth and spouted mystery and magnetism. At Angelo's John really hadn't been thinking about dating the detective. He'd been curious, wanted to get to know this Sherlock Holmes and what he was all about. The anticipation tied to the case had also been at the forefront of his thoughts.

He hadn't been _that_ disappointed to discover that Sherlock was married to his work. Of course not.

Thanks to Sherlock's companionship, he felt as if he had a chance in the dating game again. He'd stuck with the girls, never picking up any guys – perhaps out of paranoia that he might end up picking up ones that remind him of his flatmate. That would be uncomfortable, and surely Sherlock would not take kindly to it if he ever found out about John's straying thoughts. Either way, he's sure that if Sherlock does know he's bisexual, he also knows that John has no intention of randomly making a move on him. John's certain he's made that very clear over their time as flatmates.

Now, it's as if Sherlock has somehow caught on to John's carefully buried, restrained, incarcerated thoughts and feelings and reserved tendencies and is pushing all of his buttons. _All_ of them. Like a bloody two year-old smashing the keys of a piano as adults watch on cooing at how cute it is. They're already closer and far more tactile than normal friends, already spend most of their time with each other, and for God's sake – this case _is not helping_.

It's the kiss as well. That _damn_ kiss has been on John's mind ever since it happened. It lingers in the air between them, but the worst of it is John can't tell if he's the only one seeing it or if Sherlock can't stop thinking about it either, for whatever reason he might have for thinking about it. Probably scientific curiosity. Definitely scientific curiosity.

 _Definitely_ not as much as John has been in any case.

He can't help thinking about the way Sherlock's breath had ghosted over his cheek, how his hands had been warm, _so warm_ , how his lips had been chapped and soft and insistent on John's still ones.

John shivers.

_Shit._

A staff member makes his way towards them, and John, for no fathomable reason, tenses up.

"Shall we get started?"


	7. The Preparation

"My name is Daniel. I'll be doing your reading this rehearsal and on the big day. Shall we begin?"

Sherlock gives a nod and walks towards the altar.

"Sir?"

John looks up at the man. He's grey-haired, has a beard like some half-hearted Santa impersonator and the dorkiest glasses John has ever seen.

He feels his hand twitch, but he follows without a word.

Arriving and standing at the altar, the man gives them a quick run-through of how the ceremony will proceed – both on the actual day and during the rehearsal. He outlines the music, the decorations, the order of readings and the reception and John couldn't be more bored. He thinks he prefers anxiousness over _this_.

Neither Sherlock nor John decide to have a best man and parents are ruled right out, so it's just Molly and Lestrade, and some reliable (Sherlock insists) homeless network will be in attendance on the day. John doesn't doubt for a second that Mycroft already knows what's happening, but he can't help but be glad of the man's absence. He just hopes Mycroft will be too busy taking over Korea or stopping World War III to attend on the actual day as well.

Sherlock is soaking up the dreary information Daniel is throwing up like a sponge. His face is still, lighthouse gaze intent on Daniel, interrupting often to ask questions.

John wonders what Sherlock would be like if he was really getting married to his significant other. Would the other person be female, or male? Would he look like this: focussed, intent, interested? Or would he look different – would his eyes light up differently – not with realisation at something deduced, but with warmth, with happiness?

"John?" Sherlock cuts through his thoughts.

Sherlock glances at John, and then does a double take for a long moment. John deliberately makes eye contact and nods. He knows he's an open book, but he thinks that maybe, _possibly_ , he has a slim chance if he acts as much like his previous ignorant self as possible. Then he'll go home and shut himself in his room to mull over this gigantic thorn in his chest. Probably forever. Or at least until he feels he can face anyone without giving himself away completely.

He has a chance, right?

After a quick glance between them, Santa starts reading out the vows. Molly and Lestrade have taken their seats as directed by Daniel, and are watching on in something like fascination. John's doing his solid best to ignore this.

Sherlock and John are facing each other. They're both so blank that words would have to be written on their faces in marker pen for anyone to be able to get a reading of either of them. It's almost like they're having a competition. Who can stay stoic the longest: the ex-army doctor or the self-proclaimed sociopath?

There's a bit of a pause where Daniel falters, as if the complete, apparent _nothing_ of a stare that Sherlock and John are in becomes too absent of warmth for him to handle.

John can't tell what Sherlock's thinking, and he doesn't know what to think. But what _is_ Sherlock thinking? This case is obviously not just about the case. He's not sure it ever was. This whole – thing, the marriage, the decorations, everything, it just feels to John like Sherlock is dragging it out unnecessarily, like he's adding layers to what's happening that John can't discern the justification for. He's logically presented why he's doing this, but something seems to be missing from the picture.

The rehearsal flies by. Daniel finishes his reading with little enthusiasm, and following that, John and Sherlock make no move to kiss. Daniel doesn't look surprised; instead he's eyeing them both like they're ticking bombs and he can't find the blue _or_ the red cable.

When it's over, Daniel goes over a few things with the four of them to make sure they know exactly what to expect on the actual day and how things will proceed. Sherlock's not listening, and John's pretending to. Molly and Lestrade have shared more than a few baffled looks.

Sherlock turns to John and says, "There are some tests I need to run at Barts."

John says, "Do you mind if I head home? I feel like a bit of a kip."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow briefly.

"Not at all," he says, "I'll text you any developments."

"Right. See you later then."

–––

Back at 221, John finds himself roped into a conversation with Mrs Hudson.

"… taking milk and teabags. It's ridiculous." Mrs Hudson says, "I'm not your housekeeper after all."

They're sitting at Mrs Hudson's dining table in 221A, tea cups in front of the both of them. John's been wading through his own thoughts, so there's a pause as he returns to shore.

"I – what?"

Mrs Hudson gives him a concerned look, "Something on your mind dear?"

"Sorry, no, just a bit tired."

Mrs Hudson gives him a small understanding smile, "What's Sherlock gone and done now then?"

John looks at her for a moment, opens his mouth to ask how she can tell and is it really that obvious? Instead he sighs, resting a hand on the table.

"I don't know if he _is_ doing anything, Mrs Hudson. One second I swear something's different, but... I don't know. This is Sherlock, and he can be a confusing bastard as it is."

Mrs Hudson tuts disapprovingly.

"Sorry," John says, staring at his cup of tea.

They sit in silence for a moment, lost in their thoughts.

Mrs Hudson leans forward and takes John's hand in hers, "Now, John, I don't know what this is about but let me tell you something. That silly bugger cares about you a great deal, even if he has a funny way of showing it. Whatever he's gone and done to upset you, he probably hasn't thought it through. He does that, you know – thinks with his head and not with his heart. His heart, oh, he has a bigger one than he lets on. That's what he needs you for, dear. To take care of the heart business."

John's eyes crinkle at the ends as he smiles, "Thanks, Mrs Hudson."

"No worries, dear," she pats his hand and gets up to put their empty mugs away.

–––

John trudges up the steps to 221B with his stomach full of tea, biscuits and moths.

Not butterflies, because butterflies are colourful and pleasant and pretty. What he's feeling is not pleasant – it's lacking anything to do with sunshine and flowers and he thinks he's going to be sick.

He needs to talk to Sherlock. There's no way they can just leave this – whatever is or isn't going on – hanging in the air between them.

But by God, he's bloody terrified.


	8. The Pass

John types up most of what's happened on the case so far, saving it as a draft to add to when it's over. He has no idea if he will actually publish it, however; it seems to be getting a bit more personal than he would prefer to have published.

Too personal for his own blog, now that's something.

He cleans up the flat a bit; scrubs and puts away the dirty dishes, puts the laundry in to wash and then dry, dusts the flat. He tries starting a novel, but a few pages in, he finds himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over and each time having no idea of what he's just read.

By then it's too late for lunch, so he makes himself a proper meal for an early dinner. Getting himself comfortable in his chair, he mechanically eats the bowl of spaghetti bolognese whilst staring at the flickering TV screen.

His phone chimes and he picks it up off the armrest to read the text.

_Analysing data. Don't wait up – SH_

He places the phone back down without replying, and continues staring at the TV screen. Minutes later he sighs, and decides he's had enough crap telly for one day.

He's not surprised to find that his mind resistant to the rest his body craves as he tries to fall asleep. He tosses and turns and fazes in and out of consciousness for hours before giving up and going downstairs to make himself a cup of tea.

John grabs the kettle and fills it before setting it to boil. He takes a mug from the pile of freshly cleaned crockery and plonks it onto the kitchen bench. Fishing a teabag out from the box in the cupboard – thankfully untouched by Sherlock's antics – he puts it in the mug.

Waiting for the kettle to finish whistling, he goes over his strategy. First thing he's going to do when Sherlock comes through the door: ask questions about the case. He'll ask about the research, about what's really expected of him on the day, about everything to do with the case he can think of. Basic recon. Then, he'll analyse anything that doesn't seem to fit, that smells like a rat, that is not like Sherlock. Then he'll examine these oddities and go from there.

John glances at his mobile, pressing one of the buttons to light up the screen. Five hours since Sherlock texted.

No matter that John is convincing himself that he's going to get to the bottom of this mess with minimal damage, he feels just the same as when he was 13 and dared to kiss his first crush in front of all his friends. Which is absurd, because this is Sherlock – his best mate, and he shouldn't feel this way. He wouldn't have felt this way about confronting Sherlock on his not-goodness _before_ the man proposed.

No matter how emotionally inept the genius might be, it's not like he's going to run away screaming, "Gross! Coodies!" at the mention of feelings.

Just the image is enough to make John giggle out loud, and if it sounds a bit hysterical, he ignores it.

Sipping at his tea, he stares at the grainy kitchen bench and nothing at all.

John, being a soldier, has plenty of patience. It's a learned virtue from his time in the army. There's patience involved when waiting for orders to move out, to observe, to fire. There's plenty of waiting around too; these times filled with loud joviality from his mates and hushed noises of the desert around them. All this has transferred to his life with Sherlock – the waiting, waiting, waiting and then with the eventual, precise _crack_ , they'd be off and running through winding alleyways, running from criminals, running against the clock.

This is no different. Well, aside from the sore lump in his throat, the wretched tightness in his chest and his trembling hands.

He places the mug down on the bench, the remaining tea sloshing around in protest. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

A technique that helped lull him to sleep when out in the desert, staring at the insides of his eyelids, comes to mind. It's a self-distracting thought process. He would listen to the sounds around him, focus on them and only on them. He wouldn't think about what was making them, or what they meant, or anything about them. He would just listen, listen to how loud or soft they were, how jarring or melodic, how brief or strenuous, and all variations thereof. It would help calm him enough to slip into unconsciousness.

He'd used it again and again after returning from Afghanistan. He had waited for the nightmares to fade into the recesses of his mind, and with his heart was still racing, his skin too hot and tight and sticky and his nerves still jangling, he would use this technique. \

He uses it now.

He hears honking, an approaching then receding and repeating roar, a _drip, drip, drip_. He hears scratching, yowling, scuttling. He hears whirring drawing nearer and then stopping, a dull thump, whirring receding. He hears a slam, close by, then smaller thumps drawing closer, and then a jarring _crash_. _  
_

John's eyes spring open. The door to the landing. Oh.

Sherlock.

John turns and walks into the living room to appraise the detective. Sherlock glances over John, eyes flicking from head to toe and back as he removes his gloves and coat and hangs them up. John notices Sherlock seems deliberate in his movements. They're quick and agile, but there's a tightness to his jaw and a set in his shoulders that has John thinking of iron bars and impending doom.

"Sleeping well?" Sherlock asks lightly.

John raises an eyebrow, "No. But you know that."

"No, I noticed," Sherlock corrects, mouth pulling into a slight sneer.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and controls his breathing.

"Sherlock. We need to talk," John begins steadily, crossing his arms and clearing his throat.

"What about?" Sherlock walks past John and flops onto the couch, lying on his back and settling into his thinking pose.

"This - this case," John frowns at his flatmate.

Sherlock is a master of distractions and playing people. He does what he has to, no matter how immoral the action. John sighs and revises his strategy.

John says it straight, "There's something you're not telling me."

"There are plenty of things I'm not telling you," Sherlock murmurs, staring up at the ceiling, the tips of his fingers grazing and tugging on his bottom lip so his mouth parts slightly.

John's eyes stray to the movement. He runs his tongue over his own lips and shifts where he stands.

"Right. Well. Whatever you're leaving out about this case, you need to tell me. I might be stupid but I'm not blind, Sherlock," John says, forcing his gaze back to Sherlock's eyes, "The more I know about what's going on, the more prepared I'll be."

Silence deafens the flat. John watches Sherlock's chest rising and falling, and so notices when he freezes, his hands also stilling. The detective has his eyes focused on something John can't see.

John grinds his teeth in exasperation.

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?"

"John," Sherlock says, sitting up slowly and turning to look at him with a burning epiphany in his eyes, "We need to have sex."


End file.
